Slowly Twisting
by literatehyaena
Summary: Vincent is beginning a bit of a difficult journey and a long downward spiral. No suicides here, thanks, but hopefully some psychological exploration and a multichapter epic. Takes place after the game and presumably Advent Children. Dirge of Cerberus NAF.
1. Prologue

((Disclaimer: I do not own the world, characters, storyline, or any other part of Final Fantasy VII. Those belong to the corporation commonly known as Squeenix. A/N: This is quite honestly my first fanfic ever. I'll try not to kill you with the awful.))

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"Since when was Vincent a goddamn artist?" 

"What?" Tifa stared at Cid in bewilderment.

"He's holed up in the fucking attic with a pencil and a shitload of paper. Wouldn't let me in." He scowled and chewed on the end of his cigarette for a second, then added. "Guy needs a fucking cough drop too."

"Slow down. Why are you trying to get into the attic? There's nothing up there." She felt a little disoriented, Cid had launched into the topic (whatever it was) a little too quickly to make much sense. It left her irritated.

"Because your fucking television's out and I can't get to the goddamn roof without getting into the goddamn attic first!" His anger was a little disproportionate to the situation, but it usually was. She ignored it.

"Vincent sleeps up there, Cid."

"Since when? And what the fuck for?"

"He came by Midgar because he needed to be away from Ajit. Something about oppressive silence." She returned to wiping down the counter, preparing for the night's customers. "He was going to sleep on the floor to be out of the way, but we convinced him to sleep in the attic after Marlene suggested it."

"That isn't what I asked."

"It's what I answered."

"What the hell?"

"Look," she put down the cleaning rag. "I don't really know either. He's a private man, Cid, you know that. It's just the way he is."

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Above them, Vincent sat silently on the wooden floor of the attic, pencil held tightly in his right hand. He was sketching. He paused then, studying his progress. The single eye of a shattered head stared ahead in empty silence. The left side of the skull was gone, blasted into nothing by a high calibre gun. A nine millimetre high-precision rifle, to be exact. Most of the brain was destroyed, and you could see the gentle slope of the cranial wall behind the nasal cavity, the cartilage portion missing, lost in the grime of the street. A garish streak of red smeared across the remnants of the forehead, and a flap of skin marked what was left of the eyelid on the left side. The jaw was still there, and blood pooled from the mouth like sick drool. Vincent's long legs curled beneath him and he shifted slightly, preparing to reach at a different angle. The face on the paper was drawn purely from memory, a snippet of a mission he'd completed in the long smudge of memory from his Turk years. He remembered things clearly, but the human memory is prone to blurring over time. So he'd begun sketching. It gave him something to do. He placed the pencil tip and darkened the shading behind the eye. Then he was done. He eyed the picture critically, checking the details-he found nothing that seemed out of place. He turned the page in his book and began an arm. Sometime in the same year (or at least eight months later), an older Turk had blown off part of his own arm with a grenade. The mission was related to the one he'd just drawn from, and he could remember the jagged edge of the man's humerus, a partial bone exposed, blood pooling around it. The image hovered vividly in his mind. He'd only gotten the preliminary outlines down before he was interrupted again by a knocking on the door. It wasn't as heavy or rapid as Cid's had been, not as violent. He lifted his head, eyes unblinking, then lowered his focus to his work again. The knocking came again, and he answered it with silence. Whoever it was (most likely Tifa), tried twice more before giving up, leaving him to his drawings and his memories. An hour later, he'd fallen barely asleep, metallic left hand placed almost protectively over the sketchbook.


	2. In The Wind

_Krnshcht._ Vincent chewed slowly, mind distant. He normally disliked apples. In this case, with his thoughts so completely occupied, he could stand them. Anyway, there was nothing else for him to eat, nothing he could eat. Gripping the fruit loosely in his left hand, he ran the pencil aimlessly over the tired page, creating an unfocused scribble that he never noticed. His mind had moved past the attic. He'd retreated to the world he was familiar with, the life he belonged to, the time he still lived in. Memories were the anchor that held him to sanity now.

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A target. A thing in the crosshairs. Motionless. Breath. A twitch of his finger on the trigger, fire from the sound. The window exploded outward, mirroring the recoil of his rifle. But that wasn't the concern. Blood, but the target's? Screaming, screaming. Motion, it was rolling on the ground. He lifted the rifle's tip again, realigned his focus. The thing had raised its coffee cup, which had shattered upon the bullet's impact. A failed shot. The face was mutilated, its right eye torn out by a shard. Vincent cocked the rifle. He could see the thing flailing through the crosshairs. It was harder now, it was moving too much. A pause for breath, shock settling in-there, an opportunity. He brought his finger on the trigger, the muzzle flashed. Success. The skull failed under the burst and the bullet tore into the man's brain. Yes, man. But no longer. Vincent let the tip of the rifle fall and blinked to adjust his vision after the hyperfocus of the mission. Then he turned and walked away, ignoring the screaming waitresses behind him. It was time for lunch.

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Suits and voices. Simple questions at first.

"Mr. Valentine, where were you at 3:27 P.M. on May third?"

"Sector Seven, third district, on Turk business."

"Who were you with at the time?"

"Three SOLDIERs and a senior Turk."

"Their names?"

"Dairen Gallinas was my Turk partner. I don't know any names in SOLDIER."

Sleek and silver, a glint in the light. Strange to see in someone else's hands. The man held it clumsily. He felt naked without it, without its broad muzzle. He didn't belong here.

"Do you recognize this weapon, Mr. Valentine?"

"Yes." Do you?

"Can you explain its presence at the crime scene?"

"It... was used during the mission." Discomfort, displacement.

"For what, exactly?" Here, purpose.

"To kill." Stirrings, glances from people.

"Who was the intended target?" Confusion, misunderstanding.

"Th... mission?" A guess.

"Who were you instructed to i _kill /i _, Mr. Valentine?" Clarity. Understanding.

"The instructions were to clear the building of all occupants, eliminating the insurgency completely."

"How is it, then, that the gun was used on your partner?" The heart.

"He..." Interruption.

"Specifically, how is it that Mr. Gallinas ended up with one of your bullets between the eyes at point-blank range?" Again.

"He interfered." Business.

"What are you saying, Mr. Valentine?" A question.

"Dairen changed his mind." Simplicity.

"Changed his mind about _what_?" Drilling him.

"Himself." Puzzlement, annoyance from outside.

"Mr. Valentine, I want a yes or no answer, none of this cryptic bullshit. Did you kill your partner, intentionally and in cold blood?" Anger then from him.

"Yes." Give in. As it was.  
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Hojo's face twisted furiously and he grabbed Vincent's hair by the roots, digging his long fingers into the Turk's scalp. The unfortunate man shut his eyes tightly, knowing what was about to happen. _KRAK!_ Vincent's vision exploded into stars, his breath gasping out of him as the enraged scientist jerked his head upward and slammed it violently onto the steel table. There were a few brief seconds of somewhat echoic silence, causing him to wonder if he'd lost his hearing entirely, then Hojo's voice cut back in, echoing the hate that burned his own brain raw. 

"--disgusting." He turned away, a flash of white coat in Vincent's eyes. Hojo strode across the room, black shoes sharp on the chemical-clean floor. A creak, thumping, and some sort of whine. Vincent tried to sort it out in his mind, tried to ignore the pain in his head. Then Hojo had returned, a small wriggling creature in his hand. It made small stifled noises into the man's palm. He held the mouse near Vincent's face, but the Turk turned his head away. Fiercely, Hojo grabbed his hair again, yanked his head to face him, and forced the mouse into Vincent's field of vision. It was small, frail in the scientist's white-knuckled grip. Its fur was soft and clean, and he could see the whiskers twitch as it squirmed in the scientist's grasp. Delicate pink toes clutched the edge of the sallow fingers and it squeaked plaintively to be free. Vincent was startled to see it was looking at him. A tiny red eye turned curiously, almost intelligently, to his face. It was so small, it was somehow frightening.

"What--?"

"You see this, Valentine? This is specimen number twelve." The mouse opened its mouth to bite him, to free itself, but Hojo moved his thumb and placed it at the base of the mouse's skull. The little mammal squirmed. Vincent was almost hypnotised by its eyes. "It has not responded to the treatments, you see. I think you should know that." Before Vincent could respond, Hojo's thumb tightened and an audible snap could be heard. The mouse, specimen number twelve, jerked and went limp, the bright eyes going dull. The sound, the fading eyes, shocked him. Vincent suddenly understood. Hojo's thumb was at _his_ neck. And it terrified him.


	3. To Every Man His Little Cross

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Final Fantasy VII, its characters, locations, or concepts. Those currently belong to Squeenix. Also, I'm really sorry for the huge delay... I was kind of... sick.

"What a sad specimen of humanity."  
Vincent blinked up at Hojo, wary of the man even now. There was nothing to trust in him, even his kindest words held a silver blade under the white velvet coating. The scientist circled, making long savage steps like a prowling wolf.  
"Pathetic... in fact, it's nearly worthless, but it'll have to do, won't it?" Professor Hojo smiled at Vincent with a gentleness and sympathy that frightened the helpless man. "After all, it's the only one I have. Or is it? Is it indeed?" He leaned closer, his satisfied smile only inches from Vincent's face. "Is it truly human after all?"

"Vincent!!"  
The former Turk was pulled forcefully from his reverie by Tifa's voice, and as he tried to respond the foreign words crashed into each in an intellectual train wreck. He felt heavy stone of shame in his gut-he hadn't slipped and mangled his Midgarian in years. He swallowed the words and tried again.  
"Is something wrong?" His voice came out lower than he'd anticipated, and it was harsh from disuse.   
"No... Vincent, I'm not going to shout through the door, open up."  
He did so, and found Tifa on the other side of it--no surprise obviously, but her stance suggested she was slightly annoyed, impatient at the very least. She regarded him critically.  
"You look terrible," she informed him.  
"I know." Rather, it seemed logical to him, though he wasn't going to clarify that.  
"What have you eaten?"  
"...Not much."  
"Meaning what?"  
". . ."  
"Vincent, have you gone mad?!" Tifa shoved several bottles by the doorframe aside with a violence that made the man want to cringe. "You don't just stop eating for a week and expect to feel fine!" He considered pointing out that he had, in fact, eaten an apple several hours ago, and that it was only three days. Good sense got the better of him however, and he simply stood mutely off to the side as she swept angrily past. "Even Cloud knows enough to feed himself now and then!" She pulled open the door to the cupboard, which was stocked with various odds and ends. He stepped up behind her quietly, feeling he should say or do something, then stopped, bile in his throat. His hand darted out and he caught her right arm below the wrist in a fierce grip that caused her to whirl to face him, booted foot nearly catching him in the gut before she caught herself. She looked simultaneously alarmed and infuriated.  
"Vincent, what in the world are you doing?!" His grip on her was fierce enough that his knuckles were white from the effort. He was probably hurting her, but he didn't realise it.  
"Tifa... no mouse traps."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"Please."  
"What is the matter with you?" Pulling her arm free from his loosened grasp, she regarded him sceptically. "You've been acting really strange."  
"Promise me you won't set any mouse traps." His eyes were troubled, echoing some thought that lurked behind them.  
"Vincent, don't be unreasonable. They're eating our food. I have to do something about them."  
"Don't. It's not that serious."  
"They're just mice."  
"I know what they are."  
Without thinking, Tifa responded, "So you can shoot people but I can't set mouse traps?" She bit her lip as the realisation of how low her words were hit with sickening suddenness. She hadn't intended to throw his life in his face. He took a step back and dropped his head. His voice sounded very quiet when he spoke to the floor. It had an almost whisper-like quality to it.  
"... Tifa, I'm begging you. This is important." He looked up at her, red eyes deceptively steady. "Please don't set any mouse traps."  
"... okay then." She gave up, resigning it to one of his oddities. "Just find some other solution then. I don't have time to chase rodents around the house." Tifa closed the cabinet door carefully as Vincent turned to leave, apparently satisfied. He was already headed down the stairs by the time she'd turned around completely--he amazed her sometimes with his speed. She paused, studying the attic-turned-living-space. There were papers piled not untidily in the corner, but she didn't take the time to look them over. Still feeling guilty and puzzling over the mousetraps, Tifa headed down the stairs after Vincent.

About twelve minutes later, she was accosted by her other houseguest.  
"Tifa!"  
"Cid? You're awake?!"  
"Damn straight. What the fuck was all that yelling?"  
"Vincent hasn't eaten in about a week, among other things."  
"Why the hell not?!"  
"How should I know?" She dragged the rag over the countertop, frowning. "Then he got upset because I tried to set some mouse traps."  
"He did what?"  
She sighed. "I don't really know. He just got very upset about getting rid of the mouse problem."  
"Fuckin' loony."  
"Maybe. But I'm sure he has some sort of reason. He just isn't telling us."  
"Like hell he isn't. He's keeping enough secrets, I'm sick of this bullshit." He turned and clomped off.  
"Cid!"   
He slammed the door in response.

Cid found the reclusive ex-Turk in the kitchen, rolling a hard-boiled egg around in his golden claw. He seemed less interested in eating it than he was in toying with it. Cid thought he was more distant than he'd once been, the same way he had been since before Sephiroth had been killed. He stomped up and angrily grabbed the man by the right shoulder.  
"What the fuck is the matter with you, Vince?" Startled, Vincent dropped the egg and whirled in his seat, his clawed hand spread menacingly a hair's breadth from the pilot's face. Then his red eyes widened and he withdrew, hastily, frightened by his own audacity.  
"There's nothing wrong with me." Unlike Cid, he kept his voice low, barely over a murmur. He did not want this conversation overheard, even though the only one around to hear it was Tifa.  
"Like hell there's nothing wrong with you! You go off hiding in some ancient forest and you don't say anything to ANYONE for how many goddamn months until you show up in Midgar and lock yourself in a shithole of a tiny room! I hate to break to you, Mr. Nothing's Wrong, but that's not normal!" Vincent didn't reply, so he continued. "I mean, you fucking save the goddamn world, and all you can do is hide away in some tiny corner of nowhere for months!" He took a breath, during which Vincent hesitated, then he spoke the final blow. ""And now you're finally back, and all you care about are the goddamn mice?"  
"...you don't know what you're talking about." His voice was nearly a whisper, quiet and regretful. It pissed Cid off.  
"Maybe not, but it'd damn well help if you'd actually TELL us something!"  
"There are things you don't want to know."  
"Tough call if you've never told 'em to anyone." Vincent startled him by reacting savagely, voice thick with disgust.  
"Not every theory needs to be tested to be true, even Hojo knew that!"  
"What the _hell_ are you implying, Vince?"  
"Good question. I think you already know the answer to it." The Turk's voice was low and cold. Infuriated, Cid grabbed Vincent's shoulders and tried to shake him. Failing that, he shouted.  
"Don't fuck around with me, Vincent. It isn't funny!" In response, Vincent reached out with his golden claw and grabbed a handful of the man's shirt. His voice was amazingly calm as he lifted Cid to perfect eye level. Cid, for his part, found himself wondering distractedly if Vincent ever blinked.  
"I know it's not funny, Cid. Nothing is funny any more." Cid stared at him. He'd never seen Vincent act like this before... except... "I don't laugh any more Cid, and with good reason. If I keep secrets that is my business and you have no reason in the world to interfere." ...except what?  
"Except I'm your friend maybe?" The smart-ass remark flew from his mouth of its own accord, but it did the trick--Vincent put him down. But before he could apologise, Cid added something else. "Just because you were Hojo's little lab rat doesn't give you an excuse to treat us like shit." With an unexpected swiftness, Vincent's eyes became slitted and furious. More importantly, the claw became a fist that smashed across Cid's jaw and sent a spurt of red spattering onto the wooden floor. Cid himself crashed painfully to the ground, still conscious but in a state of shock. Still caught up in his anger, Vincent crossed the room, stepping over Cid, then threw open the door and stalked off. He startled Tifa in the hall, but gave no response to her alarmed questions save icy silence as he climbed the steps and shut himself back into the attic, leaving a tiny smear of blood on the stairwell from his claw.


	4. Turn, Turn, Turn

Disclaimer: Same as before.

Author's Note: Man oh man, I got a couple of really tough reviews to think about. In particular I got a question... that I'm not sure if I'm expected to answer or not. Uhm. Hmm. I don't know what to say except that I do put a lot of effort into these chapters...

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Tifa struggled to set Cid's jaw back in line, but it was difficult--Vincent had done a very good job of breaking it. The pilot wasn't much help either, as he kept moving and talking--or attempting to at any rate. Tifa could almost make out the curses. Finally she stopped and ordered him to stop making things difficult. After something that may have been a protest, he complied, probably in too much pain to argue the point. After another minute of renewed effort, Tifa figured it was the best she could do--Vincent had hit him across the side of the jaw, shattering the portion just before where it connected to the rest of the skull. This was a house and bar, not a hospital. Which is where, she mused, she probably should have taken him. Materia was quicker though, and she knew Cid wouldn't stand for having his jaw wired shut, broken mandible or no. She was just beginning to set her focus on the luminescent green orb, though, when she heard the creak of the front door opening. _Oh gods, I hope that isn't Marlene--or a customer._ She twisted where she sat, craning her neck to see around the corner. In the doorway stood a very clean man in a neatly pressed suit. Her first impulse was to label him a Turk, but he wasn't one. He did, however, work for ShinRa. Or had.  
"...Reeve?!" His head jerked up and he stepped sharply to his right, allowing him to see her where she knelt.  
"Tifa," he greeted as he stepped forward, "I hav-what in Holy happened?" Naturally shocked, he seemed paralysed by this new development. "Is he all right?!" Cid tried to respond with something along the general lines of 'what the hell do you think, dipshit?' but Tifa cut him off.  
"He's not going to die, no. He got in a fight with Vincent." Her patience was rather thin, she really didn't need this right now, but guessed it was probably more stressful for him than it was for her. She was right. Having never personally been in combat, or even in the presence of a severe injury like this, Reeve was rather shaken by this and was left at a complete loss. As such, he simply stood numbly as Tifa returned her attention to Cid and the Materia. After a few seconds of tense concentration the afflicted area glowed slightly green, then the light was absorbed back into the skin and the room exploded in profanity. Tifa interrupted him.  
"Cid, what did Vincent _do_ to you?" He stared at her as though she'd just sprouted antlers.  
"Punched me in the goddamn mouth, what does it fucking look like?"  
"But _why?_" It was like pulling teeth.  
"Fuck if I know."  
"_Think_, Cid. What was the last thing you said to him?"  
"Nothing to make me deserve that shit! Just told him he's acting like a goddamn jerk and that bein' Hojo's lab... rat... goddamn."  
"What?" Tifa blinked at him. Maybe he'd taken some brain damage too.  
"Goddamn."  
"..er..."  
"_Goddamn!_"  
"Hold it." Reeve's low voice cut across the exchange with enough suddenness to make Tifa jump. "Where is Vincent now?" The question made her realise she had no idea, and she unconsciously turned her head to look down the hall where she'd passed him. Cid, catching the motion, added his opinion.  
"Probably in that goddamn hole of a fucking room. Not like he's got anywhere else to hide his sorry ass."  
"And where would that 'goddamn hole of a fucking room' be?" There was a dry edge to Reeve's voice, not mocking but slightly ironic all the same.  
"The attic," Tifa cut in, before Cid could start something. "It's past the bedroom and up the stairs. It's not hard to find."

"...Vincent?" Reeve tapped lightly on the door. There was a movement on the other side, but no response. He hadn't expected any. He sat down on the wooden floor outside the attic, then took a deep breath before letting it out again. "Vincent, Cid has recovered." It was almost a reassurance, though he somehow doubted that was the thing Vincent wanted to hear right now. "It's fortunate Tifa had the Restore Materia on her, or there could have been permanent damage." Reeve imagined he heard a soft snort of derision. Reproach was not the right tactic, and he knew this. But he'd had to try. "His jaw was crushed, actually. He couldn't talk, though not for want of trying." He leaned back against the wall. "I suppose he's simply lucky that his cheek bone didn't splinter... it would have gone into his eye, I'd think, though I'm not really a doctor." He sighed and fell silent for several seconds as he waited for a response. None came, but he took a further minute to collect his thoughts. "I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, and I don't think Cid is really angry, to be honest." A rustle of cloth indicated Vincent was indeed behind the door, and moving. He couldn't tell if the man was coming closer or retreating though, as only a single dull _tunk_ of metal was heard. It made Reeve nervous that he wasn't being answered--it was perhaps a little too much like trying to report to Tseng. Except Tseng never had Vincent's temper that he'd been able to tell. He hesitated, not really wanting to ask this, but not knowing how else to elicit a reaction. "Vincent... are you religious?"  
Vincent still didn't respond. There was a reason for this. If Reeve could have gotten into Vincent's mind, he'd have experienced an aggravating and disconcerting buzzing, like a mass of hellish bees in his head. Vincent had never had a headache like this before-if indeed that was what it was. He knew very well, though, that Cid hadn't any real understanding of his anger, and he was fine with that--which was why he was currently furious with himself. Reeve was going on, talking about some kind of penance... Vincent only caught fractured portions of it. It was metaphorical, but Vincent felt a little annoyed that Reeve was talking to _him_ about penance. Vincent had spent the last thirty years working on penance, and he'd made no progress toward redemption. He knew the struggle far better than anyone else--it had become his life. As far as Vincent could tell, Reeve had no sins to bear, but there he was outside the door, talking about penance. He was surprised to find... he resented it. It wasn't a feeling he'd had in a long time... not since he'd... well, not since he'd resented Hojo for Lucrecia's affection. Hojo... Lucrecia had loved him... she'd _loved_ him... and _himself_... Lucrecia... being... _with_ her... was like touching heaven... just for a little bit... that _bastard_, that _fucking bastard_ Hojo... he _hurt_ her... but he, Vincent, had _killed_ her... there was Reeve again, talking now about Aeris... the buzzing filled his head now, and he closed his eyes to try and shut it all out.  
Reeve was interrupted by sounds from the other side of the door. There was a crash, and a rattling noise, then a scraping sound that he couldn't describe. "Vincent?" No answer, except an arrhythmic thumping. "Vincent!" Another rattle, then the sound of breaking glass. Then a crack that could have been either wood or bone.  
"_TIFA!_"


	5. On The Opposite Side

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Final Fantasy VII. At all. I also apologise for the unholy wait for this chapter, college ate me alive and I just sort of lost control of my time. In the meantime, I notice that my formatting for fics is unbearably ugly. Does anyone else share this opinion? Also this chapter didn't seem so short when I first wrote it...

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Vincent was woken by the tug of the IV in his skin. It was a tender feeling, but one wholly wrong—and horrifyingly familiar. He left his eyes closed and moved his arm slightly—less than a millimetre was all it took for the chills of revulsion to take hold of him. He wasn't wrong. Something sick crawled in his stomach and the Turk closed his eyes more firmly against the reality of it. His first impulse was to go still and stiff, like a corpse. Just get it over with. But this wasn't what it felt like... it couldn't be, because the voices he was hearing were very familiar. There was a rush of pressure in his head and nausea hit him like a curse. He'd lose consciousness at this rate. He took a breath. Breathe. Breathe. He could hear the persistent beeping... he could hear cursing, he could hear conversation and life and movement. He wasn't bound to the table. He _wasn't bound to the table_. Suddenly struck with—not elation, but something akin to it, Vincent forced himself to move. And he did. All at once. As though to prove he wasn't helpless, Vincent surged up and overbalanced, pulling the monitor and IV first onto himself, then, as he toppled forward onto Cid, down to the floor as pilot, Turk, and machinery came crashing down.

Tifa's reaction was instantaneous—Vincent would need help. She was halfway across the room when she heard the low snarl rising from Vincent's throat, though, and her concern suddenly switched to Cid. Vincent was a dangerous man as it was—now he was struggling and that golden claw was way too close to Cid's face for anyone's comfort. She reached them and grabbed the Turk by the arm. She had to separate them quickly. It wasn't a few seconds later that she had to pull back quickly—Vincent had come very close to removing her own face. He fell back, hitting the back of his head against the metal base of the hospital bed, flailing still as Cid staggered back onto his feet. Blood rolled from a long gash on his right arm, and he looked a bit shaken, but he was otherwise okay. It didn't stop him from complaining loudly. Two nurses poured in through the door as Reeve sidled away, and Tifa planted herself in front of Vincent, blocking him from their view and vice versa. Everything happened so quickly there really wasn't time to think things through.

"W-wait! STOP!" The doctor was left standing in the middle of the room, and he did the only thing he could apparently think of. The nurses obeyed, both skidding to a halt in front of Tifa, who froze reflexively. Cid, however, paid him absolutely no mind at all and continued to swear at astonishing volume. Vincent had retreated under the bed, having somehow managed to fold his tall but thin frame up underneath it. The real trouble started when one of the nurses saw blood. Grabbing Cid by the wrist, the young man attempted to force the pilot to be still so he could inspect the wound. It didn't go well. He quickly found himself cornered, trapped against the wall while an angry man with breath like a pack of cigarettes swore and shouted at him.

Tifa took control first. She hadn't followed Cloud across the Planet and back without learning how to take charge. "EVERYBODY OUT!" The doctor and remaining nurse glanced at each other uncertainly, but she was already in action, grabbing Cid by the back of his jacket and yanking him in the direction of the door. He took the hint and stormed out, dragging his unfortunate victim by the front of the shirt and dripping blood on the floor as he went. There was some initial hesitation on the part of the staff. They couldn't just leave... Vincent was still under the bed. The nurse left first, retreating from the chaotic scene as quickly as she could. Tifa shouted back over the din. "Reeve, take care of Vincent!" That settled it. With a great deal of nervous pausing and glancing back, the overwhelmed doctor took his leave, shutting the door behind him.


	6. So Harmless Walking

DISCLAIMER: I do not own FFVII, Advent Children, or (heaven forbid I'd want to) Dirge of Cerberus. I do not own any of the locations, characters, or ideas contained within them. In fact, as Kurt Vonnegut would say, I own doodley-squat.

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Reeve stood nervously against the wall, back pressed up against it as though he were glued there. He couldn't see Vincent's face under the bed, but he could see his feet, and his normal hand. Reeve wasn't sure he wanted to know how Vincent was holding the other one.

"...Vincent?" He spoke nervously, hesitating to break the ragged sound of breathing that filled the room. Vincent shifted his feet slightly, and Reeve tensed—much as Vincent presumably had. "I... are you all right?" It was quite possibly one of the less sensitive things he'd said so far, but he could not for the life of him figure out anything else to say. This was not the kind of situation he was normally ready for. He wished he had Cait Sith handy.

"No." The words escaped Vincent's mouth quickly, harsh and curt. Reeve frowned. That was unusually candid.

"Vincent, I... you--" he got cut off, which was just as well, because he wasn't certain where he was going with that opening.

"Why am I here?" Of course Vincent would get to the root first and work up from there. Reeve shifted nervously.

"You had a seizure." Q and A he could handle. He hoped.

"A seizure?" Suddenly Reeve could see one red eye staring at him from the dark space under the bed. The other one was obscured by hair. It was a little unsettling. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, you collapsed and... well," Vincent wasn't waiting for Reeve to stumble over a good explanation.

"Was Chaos involved?" Reeve flinched.

"No, you just collapsed and had a seizure. You could have hurt yourself much more than you did."

"More than I did?" There was some hesitation, a caution, as though Vincent had just remembered himself, his body. Reeve felt like he was walking on rifle-tips, waiting for something to go off... or maybe it was Vincent walking on guns, and Reeve just watching, waiting for something horrible to happen.

"Yes, your claw..."

"I know." Vincent's voice was flat, and Reeve let it go. He knew when Vincent had gotten the drift already. He waited while Vincent recollected.

"Tifa had to use a Cure materia to keep you... whole while we waited for the ambulance." He had to try to stress the necessity of the situation. By the time they'd gotten the door open, Vincent had torn a hole in his stomach, a hole that poured not only blood but other fluids. No one wanted to go near that twitching claw, even after the seizure itself ended. If Vincent's natural healing hadn't helped, Reeve wasn't sure Tifa's materia would have been enough. It had been a sick experience, standing by while Tifa tried to stop the bleeding and close the wound—surreal, actually. It was hard to believe that Vincent could be in any danger at all, but the whole attic had smelled of blood. As it was, by the time the ambulance arrived at the hospital, there wasn't even a need for stitches.

Vincent barely remembered the seizure, so he was forced to take Reeve's word for it. He didn't say anything, forcing Reeve to speak again.

"Vincent, it could be serious."

"What?" Vincent raised his head, looking at Reeve with blank, startled out of reverie.

"The... Vincent, you had a seizure." Reeve stumbled, trying to explain. "You can't leave until we know what caused it." Vincent's next movement was so sudden that Reeve thought the former Turk was going to flip the entire bed over. Instead, he somehow slid out from under the bed, unfolding into his full height to look Reeve in the eyes, his hair hanging tangled and unkempt. The clawed digits on his left arm twitched slightly, though Reeve wasn't aware of it. He was trying not to look away from Vincent's haunting stare.

"I don't like hospitals." It was such a flat statement that it caught Reeve off his guard, and he blinked.

"What? No, wait." He put up a hand, not actually needing Vincent to repeat himself. He didn't... no, it made sense. Of course he didn't like hospitals... but ... "Anything that could fell you would have killed someone else a long time ago," he dared to say, and Vincent... flinched. Reeve startled. "Vincent?"

The tall man turned his back, though, ghosting away to sit silently on the bed. His movements were restrained and cautious, making the moment surreal. Reeve shifted his feet, watching as Vincent clasped his hand and claw together between his knees and stared at the floor. Finally, without anything else to do, Reeve turned and walked stiffly to the door, making good his escape before anything else dramatic could happen.


End file.
